


Unreasonable

by Laur



Series: Paintball [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Annoying Mycroft, Bored Sherlock, Gen, Humour, Mediator John, Paintball, Slice of Life, brotherly love (hate), overpriced suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When there were no cases on, Sherlock was constantly coming up with new and exciting ways to get John’s adrenaline pumping."</p><p>Can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unreasonable

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, I can't stop with the paintball fics.

In about three minutes, Sherlock’s brain was going to melt.

He’d been staring at John’s paintball gun for precisely three hundred and forty seven seconds. His gaze was focused on the ceiling above the couch, but he could see the gun in his peripheral vision. It was leaning against the far side of the coffee table, just out of reach. 

Sherlock could practically feel his mind liquefying from boredom. John was going to come home and find gray matter oozing from Sherlock’s ears. 

He knew where John’s real gun was, too. Locked in the top left desk drawer. But Sherlock was ‘not allowed’ to use John’s gun ‘for fun’ and especially not ‘in the flat’. 

In a move that betrayed his desperation, Sherlock actually deigned to turn his head so he could fully contemplate the paintball gun. If the choice was between paint on the walls or Sherlock’s brain trickling out of his skull, Sherlock was reasonably (ninety two percent) certain John would choose paint on the walls. The uncertainty (eight percent) reflected the occasions when John was in an exceptionally foul and unreasonable mood, like the time he’d thrown out the mold experiment under his bed, and the time he’d found a toe in the kettle and hadn’t returned to the flat for twenty three hours. 

The downstairs door opened and, after a longer than average pause, slammed shut. Interest piqued, Sherlock listened for John’s familiar tread on the stairs, accompanied by the rustling of plastic bags. He heard it a moment later, the pace sedate, but it was the second set of footsteps that made him groan in irritation. 

“Guess who I ran into,” John announced as he entered the flat. He moved to the kitchen to place the groceries on the counter (no room on the table). The bane of Sherlock’s existence came moseying in after him. 

“Good afternoon, little brother,” Mycroft simpered, coming to a stop four feet into the flat. He loomed over Sherlock, his great girth casting Sherlock in shadow. Sherlock refused to acknowledge his presence. 

“John, did you—” 

“Get the denture cleaning kit you asked for?” John interrupted, walking into the living area. “Yes.” He tossed the box of supplies at his supine flatmate, who caught it easily. “Please don’t poison anyone or dissolve the flat. Tea, Mycroft?”

Standing on the other side of the coffee table, John was currently positioned closer to the paintball gun than Sherlock was. Sherlock wondered if he could get up and grab it before John intervened. It would be a good test of John’s reflexes. Sherlock had to do them regularly, keep John on his toes, or else his blogger would become unacceptably slow and dull. When there were no cases on, Sherlock was constantly coming up with new and exciting ways to get John’s adrenaline pumping, either with surprise, fear or anger (in order of descending preference – Sherlock didn’t actually _like_ having John mad at him). 

“Thank you, John, that would be lovely,” Mycroft agreed, not looking away from Sherlock. John rolled his eyes and returned to the kitchen. 

Mycroft was wearing a new suit – he’d lost weight somehow, the lazy git – and was undeniably smug about it. Sherlock could tell from the suit’s make, to the cut, to the expensive material. In one hand was a folder, containing what was surely a tedious, bureaucratic scandal, and in the other hand was the ever-present umbrella. Mycroft was leaning against the ridiculous accessory in a way that displayed confidence like a preening peacock. 

“You’ve put on weight again,” Sherlock commented lazily, raising the box to read the kit’s contents. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft twitch in irritation. Sherlock smirked. 

“Time for glasses already, Sherlock?” Mycroft returned. “Squinting like that will give you crows’ feet before you’re forty.” 

Sherlock looked away from the kit’s ingredients list to glare at his brother. Sherlock’s vision was perfectly fine, exceptional even, thank you very much. And he did _not_ have crows’ feet.

Mycroft smirked, having gained Sherlock’s full attention.

“Be nice!” John shouted from the kitchen. “He’s got a case for you, Sherlock.”

“Not interested!” Sherlock shouted back, sitting up and working open the box. 

Mycroft sighed and tapped his umbrella. “Just take a look at it. You’re not doing anything of importance.”

“I’ll have you know I am currently working on several experiments –”

“Of which you already know the outcome and which have no purpose other than to satisfy your childish enjoyment of destroying things.”

Sherlock bared his teeth and resisted the urge to throw the kit at Mycroft. “I’ll not get involved with your petty politics.”

“Just because the victim is still alive does not make the case petty.”

“The jockeying for power and lack of any inspiring crime make the case petty.”

“A man’s career –”

“Alright, boys,” John interrupted, appearing by Mycroft’s elbow and carrying two mugs of tea. 

Obviously, Mycroft was in an insistent mood and was not going to leave until Sherlock looked at his stupid case. Not unless Sherlock provided suitable motivation.

Dropping the cleaning kit, Sherlock lunged across the coffee table and snatched John’s paintball gun. With both hands occupied with steaming hot beverages, John could do nothing but bite out a curse as Sherlock aimed the gun and fired. 

Instinctively, Mycroft used the folder to cover his face, cowering in an undignified way, but Sherlock wasn’t aiming for his face. 

With a _pop_ and a very satisfying _splat_ , red paint burst over Mycroft’s immaculate, newly-made, exorbitantly-priced suit, right in the gut. 

With a grunt of pain and a slight curving of the shoulders, Mycroft froze, face still hidden by the folder. 

John froze, eyes wide in horror.

Sherlock froze, except for the huge grin that slowly split his face.

Mycroft slowly lowered the folder, his eyes blazing and locked onto Sherlock’s face. John made a choked sound and quickly put down the teas before stepping in front of Mycroft.

Sherlock realized John thought Mycroft might actually kill his brother, and was moving to defend him. His grin grew impossibly larger. 

“Alright. Now just calm down, Mycroft,” John murmured, hands raised. Mycroft’s knuckles were white around the umbrella handle, the folder crumpling in his tightening fist. “I know you could probably get away with fratricide –”

“No one would ever know,” Mycroft agreed. Paint was slowly absorbing into the material. Some dripped down onto the carpet. Sherlock would never have it cleaned – the stain would be a reminder of this glorious moment. 

“But,” John continued, voice somewhat strained. “Think about how Mummy would feel.”

“She’s always liked me better anyway,” Mycroft dismissed, voice smooth, eyes unblinking, keeping Sherlock in his sights.

Sherlock gasped in outrage and opened his mouth to protest, but John whipped a hand behind him, palm toward Sherlock in the universal sign to STOP. Sherlock growled. He considered shooting Mycroft in the forehead – John wasn’t tall enough to block that shot. This close, a paintball might even break the skin. 

“Right. Okay. But – no, listen,” John stuttered. “What about all your cases? Without Sherlock, you’ll have to do all the grunt work yourself.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed by John’s argument. 

“How does that sound, having to sneak around to gather evidence, dealing with people, being subjected to their _smells_ ,” John continued, voicing what were likely Mycroft’s worst nightmares. Sherlock wanted to hug him. 

Mycroft twitched and finally broke eye-contact with Sherlock, turning his flinty gaze to John. John stood tall. Sherlock bristled. 

“And, okay, how about, as apology, Sherlock will solve this case for you.”

Betrayed, Sherlock scowled, the hugging-urge instantly gone. Mycroft could _have_ John if he was going to be like that. 

With a considering tilt of the head, Mycroft looked down his predatory nose as John. 

_No, wait, I didn’t mean that!_ Sherlock thought. 

Mycroft raised his eyes to look at Sherlock over John’s head, and Sherlock wiped the panic from his face. 

“You’re lucky to have him, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured, voice menacing in a way that Sherlock hadn’t heard since Mycroft’s cruel teenage years. 

Sherlock raised his chin. “Go away,” he ordered, ignoring the petulant edge in his own voice.

A corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched up. He nodded at John. “I think I’ll have to skip the tea this time,” he apologized, handing John the folder. Gait stiff, he turned and exited the flat. John didn’t move until he heard the downstairs door slam shut.

John sagged, breath escaping him in a rush. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, turning around to face Sherlock. “You’re insane,” he accused, but his eyes were bright with amusement. 

Sherlock grinned.

“And you’re not allowed to do that ever again. Give me that.” He took the paintball gun from Sherlock. “I thought he was going to nerve pinch me and then strangle you to death.” 

“He’s too lazy,” Sherlock reassured his rattled flatmate, grabbing his tea and taking a sip. He felt very at peace with the world all of a sudden.

John placed the folder, slightly crumpled, onto the coffee table. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered, retreating upstairs to stash his paintball gun. “You’re going to have to solve that case now,” John informed him when he came back.

“You do it,” Sherlock retorted, drinking his tea and disassembling the cleaning kit. With a little experimentation, he was sure he could dissolve a finger in the solution. 

John snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Sherlock sighed happily. All was right in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a bonus paintball pic I did because I have problems obviously.
> 
>  <http://notesoflore.tumblr.com/post/131048995925/ive-had-paintballlock-on-the-brain-so-heres-a>">
> 
>  


End file.
